


July, 2005

by JJK



Series: Life, Interrupted [14]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - The Time Traveler's Wife, Enjolras' 30th birthday, Gen, M/M, Pining!Enjolras, Time Travel, drugs & alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1258096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not letting you enter your thirties in dirty sweatpants and three days’ worth of grime. Shower.”<br/>-<br/>Enjolras is turning 30, but Grantaire still hasn't returned from an unusually long Trip, and he's at a loose end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_July, 2005 (Enjolras is 30, Grantaire is 33 and 23)_

Sometimes Grantaire would be gone for few minutes. He might return just as Enjolras had swept the discarded clothes into neat pile, righted the books and mopped up the wine which Grantaire spilled as he Travelled. That was rare. Usually he’d be gone for a matter of hours and no matter how Enjolras tried to distract himself, Grantaire’s absence was deafening. An emptiness would echo around the house, louder than any of Grantaire’s irritating quirks. 

He couldn’t read without the words blurring; it would take three attempts to read a sentence and take in what it was saying. Work was out of the question; with his thoughts jumbled he’d have to ring Combeferre to remember even the slightest detail about an upcoming rally for the charity. As much as Enjolras might complain about Grantaire’s humming, or the way he always managed to start working on something distracting whenever Enjolras really needed to concentrate; he’d take it over the silence any day. 

Sometimes Enjolras would find himself standing in the kitchen, staring out over their little garden. His thoughts would lose themselves in the light that filtered through the leaves of the trees as he waited for the crash and string of curse words which would indicate that Grantaire was home. 

If he had to, he’d curl up under the sheets, feeling lost in the expanse of the mattress. He might steal Grantaire’s pillow in a vague hope that the lingering scent of Grantaire would help send him to sleep. It rarely worked. He found it difficult to sleep at the best of times, but without Grantaire it was damn near impossible. 

He had to force himself not to stare at the spot where Grantaire had travelled from. But as the hours wore on he’d find himself making excuses to walk past it again and again. He’d fold the clothes, he might use the opportunity to wash that green sweater that Grantaire otherwise lived in, and eventually he’d sit in the kitchen and wait. Carved from a large slab of oak, the table would have been more at home in a farmhouse than a Chicago town house. Rough-hewn, it was marked from some of Grantaire’s more adventurous cooking experiments. A red wine stain here, slight burns from a too-hot tray of cookies there; it was a document of their life in that house, and Enjolras had memorised all its imperfections. 

A few hours could seem like an eternity sat at that kitchen table. 

But he’d never been gone this long before. 

There was the frightful April in, oh when was it? 2000, 2001? When Grantaire had been gone for almost three days. Enjolras had almost been driven mad with worry. It had taken all Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s combined attention to dissuade Enjolras from driving round Chicago looking for him. (Then here had been that argument which had sent Grantaire storming out for a three day binge drinking session. But that was a completely different situation, and Enjolras had been angry more than anything else. Of course when Grantaire went and Travelled as soon as he got home it threw Enjolras into a panic; reliving the argument over and over again fearing it might have been the last words they ever exchanged). But this was nearing five days and Enjolras was at a loose end. 

He was unashamedly staring at the clock on the kitchen wall now. He hadn’t showered since…he didn’t know when, and the coffee in the mug before him was stone cold. When someone knocked on the door he jumped out of skin, sent the coffee flying in his haste to stand up, and hurried down to the hall so fast that he almost tripped over his own feet. 

“Happy birthday!” Courfeyrac let off a party popper as Enjolras opened the door, and quickly followed it by a toot from a party horn. As he noticed Enjolras’ dishevelled appearance, however, the toot died out and the horn hung limply from his gaping mouth. “Sweet Jesus, what happened to you?” he asked, ushering Enjolras back inside and hurrying to close the door lest the neighbours see. 

Courfeyrac assumed the sweat pants Enjolras was wearing belonged to Grantaire, because they hung off his narrow hips and pooled on the floor around his ankles. His bare feet were smudged with dirt from the kitchen floor, his golden curls were ratty and falling out of the top knot they’d been pulled back into, and his eyes were blood shot. To say he looked drained would have been an understatement. He looked…broken. Heightened even more by the expression of crushed hope which crumbled across his features. It was Courfeyrac at the door, not Grantaire. Enjolras' shoulders slumped and he trooped back to the kitchen. Folding himself back into the chair, he resuming his vigil over the second hand as it marched around the face of the clock. 

Courfeyrac exchanged a concerned look with his reflection in the hallway mirror. Tugging decisively on his shirt to straighten it out, he marched towards the kitchen with determination. He dropped the bag of party affects on the counter and settled into the chair across from Enjolras, fixing him with his most genuine, most concerned look. 

“What are we doing?” 

It was with a great reluctance that Enjolras tracked his eyes across to Courfeyrac’s. 

“Grantaire’s not back.” 

“Still?” Courfeyrac tried to rein back his shock, but it was too late. Enjolras had seen the worry in his eyes and it only intensified his own. “He’s never been gone this long before has he?” Courfeyrac hesitated. 

Enjolras shook his head. 

Dragging his chair around the table, with a complete disregard for the horrible screeching sound it made on the tiles, Courf positioned himself next to Enjolras. Close enough that their shoulders brushed. 

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he said, draping an arm around Enjolras and resting his head on Enjolras’ shoulder. “He’s probably in the meadow…” 

“Can’t be.” Enjolras said. “The longest he was there was three days. And we had that already.” He shifted and dropped his shoulder to lean his head on top of Courfeyrac’s. 

“I’m sure he’s fine, where he is.” 

“You can’t know that,” Enjolras pulled away, wanting to curl in on himself. Wanting Grantaire to come home already. 

“He’s Grantaire. He…pulls through.” 

Enjolras wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. Apparently his expression conveyed his confusion. 

“He dislocated a knee, he was fine. He lost like seven pints of blood, he was fine. He drank himself stupid –” 

“Yeah, this conversation isn’t really helping, Courf.” A run through of horrendous injuries had been playing through his mind all day, Enjolras didn’t need a reminder. 

“Well you can’t sit here and be miserable all evening; it’s your thirtieth birthday.” 

He didn’t really need reminding of that either. 

“Come on,” Courf nudged him, teasing and leaning round to peer up into Enjolras’ eyes. Reluctantly Enjolras turned to face him; there was something undeniable about Courfeyrac’s big brown eyes. He’d never been able to say no to him, even in the early days at college when they hadn’t exactly got along. “It’s your birthday; he’d want you to be happy.” 

Enjolras snorted. “No he wouldn’t. He hates birthdays.” 

“He hates _his_ birthday,” Courf corrected with a smug grin. “He loves yours. Remember last year – with all the balloons? When he turned the dining room into a giant balloon ball pen?” 

“That had you written all over it,” Enjolras frowned at the memory. He’d been picking up popped balloon fragments for weeks. How they’d ended up under the fridge he’d never know. 

“But he facilitated it,” Courf beamed. “Look, he’s probably sunning himself in ancient Rome, drinking mead with a bunch of Vikings, singing karaoke with Elvis, alright? It’s your birthday. I will not let you sit here and be miserable. Now you _can_ sit in a bar and be miserable, that I might allow.” 

A small smile twitched at the corner of Enjolras’ mouth. “That’s not how it works,” he muttered, without his previous resentment. 

Sensing that it was working, Courf decided to run with it. “Sure it is.” He leant back in his chair, twirling an arm behind him, tugging at a tendril of hair as he thought. “I’ll bet, at this very moment, he’s challenging Genghis Khan to a drinking contest. Ooh! Or, partying with Robin Hood – wait, no, he was fictional,” 

“Courfeyrac,” 

“I know,” he said, suddenly serious. “But how is sitting here going to do any good? And, dude, when was the last time you showered? He’s really not going to want to hug you when he gets home if you smell like that.” He stoically ignored the glare Enjolras shot him. “Go take a shower. I’ll sit here, and if anything happens I’ll let you know right away,” 

“But –” 

“I’m not letting you enter your thirties in dirty sweatpants and three days’ worth of grime. Shower.” 

When Enjolras still didn’t budge Courfeyrac took it upon himself to push Enjolras out of his chair and shove him towards the stairs. 

“A watched pot never boils; didn’t your mom ever tell you that? I’ll bet he comes back just as soon as you step in the shower,” 

“So I should wait – ” 

“No Enjolras, that’s not how it works.” Courfeyrac exasperated, still pushing him towards the stairs. “Shower, now.” 

He waited at the bottom of the stairs until he heard the shower start, before taking up the watch in the kitchen. He drummed his fingers on the table, took out his phone, drummed _it_ against the table, opened up his messages and scrolled through them. All the while thinking of how he was going to get Enjolras to the bar. 

He understood Enjolras’ worry, of course he did – he was scared for Grantaire too - but he could see that Enjolras’ anxiety was unhealthy. What Enjolras needed was to be distracted (and drunk). 

In the end he caved and texted Combeferre. He would know what to do.


	2. Chapter 2

_July, 2005 (Enjolras is 30, Grantaire is 33 and 23)_

Warm water, verging on scolding, cascaded around Enjolras’ shoulders. He stood motionless, letting it roll off him. Staring at the tiled wall. Trying to convince himself that there weren’t tears mingled into the droplets tracking down his cheeks. 

He felt lost. Which was not something he was accustomed to feeling. If he didn’t like things he took action and changed them. But he couldn’t change this, he couldn’t do anything. Grantaire was gone and all Enjolras could do was wait and hope that he’d come back. 

Life without Grantaire had been unimaginable since he was five years old. He’d only survived college with the knowledge that he would get to see Grantaire again one day, but this time he had no such assurance. He racked his brain trying to remember if he’d ever seen an older version of Grantaire. If you’d asked him last week, Enjolras would have sworn he’d seen Grantaire older than 33. With more grey at the temples, deeper laughter lines around his eyes, but now he wasn’t so sure. As a child all adults looked old. Grantaire had always looked old. 

The worst part was not knowing if he should be waiting, or grieving. 

Closing his eyes he pressed his forehead against the cool tiles. His hand reached for the tap instinctively, turning the water off with one simple flick of his wrist. He wished it was an easy to switch his brain off. To escape from his troubling thoughts for just a few hours. 

Maybe getting drunk wasn’t such a bad idea. 

= 

Courfeyrac was on the phone when Enjolras padded back into the kitchen. He glanced up, still talking, and beamed at the transformation. Enjolras’ sweats had been swapped for dark jeans and a maroon shirt, open at the neck. His hair was still damp, so duller than normal, but it was beginning to curl with its usual exuberance again. He looked refreshed. 

“There’s the Enjolras we know and love,” Courf grinned. 

Enjolras pulled a face, bringing his hand up to scratch at his collar bone. Just because he’d consented to shower and change didn’t mean he was necessarily going anywhere. He was still wrought with worry. 

Courfeyrac continued to grin as he turned the phone to speaker and set it down the table, “’Ferre says hi,” 

“Hello,” Combeferre said on cue. His voice was tinny through the phone accompanied by a discord of layered conversations and music; evidently he was already at the bar. 

“Hey.” Enjolras managed. He gripped the back of a chair and leant against it. Fearing that if he sat down he might not find the strength to stand up again. 

“He’ll come back, Enjolras I know he will,” 

“You sure?” Enjolras asked, knuckles white from the force of his grip. “How sure?” He trusted Combeferre’s judgement. No matter how obscure the subject, his best guesses was usually accurate. 

The song changed as Combeferre thought, something with lots of rhythmic clapping. Courfeyrac began to tap his foot along to the beat. 

“I’d say I’m... seventy two percent sure that he’ll be fine.” 

“That’s a very precise estimate,” Courfeyrac chuckled. 

“It’s very carefully calculated.” Combeferre replied. They could hear his smile. 

Enjolras dropped his head and stared at the grain of the table. Combeferre’s confidence should have reassured him, but Enjolras felt far from comforted. After all, what did Combeferre really know about any of this? 

“Enjolras? What do you want to do? I understand if you don’t want to come to the bar, that’s completely justified, and we’re not going to force you to do anything.” 

Enjolras nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak, fortunately Combeferre didn’t need him to. 

“But we have a cake, and it would be a shame to waste it, so if you prefer we could move this party to yours?” 

“’Ferre, I don’t want – ” 

“Alright, this gathering,” Combeferre rephrased before Enjolras begun struggling to articulate his concern. 

How could he live with himself if he’d been out partying whilst Grantaire was dying? Not that Grantaire dying, he was…signing karaoke with Elvis, taking his five year old self out for ice cream, taking Elvis out for ice cream – anything but dying. 

“Mutual appreciation of that fact that you were born,” Courfeyrac chimed in. He was studying Enjolras’ face with care, tracing every emotion no matter how fleeting. Even when Enjolras caught him staring, he didn’t drop his gaze. 

“Of course we could leave the cake and go, if you’d prefer that?” Combeferre suggested. 

Enjolras looked away from Courfeyrac, squinting out at the garden. The sun was sinking behind the trees. Bright rays of orange poked through the branches and flooded the kitchen with a warm glow. He hoped Grantaire was somewhere warm. 

“I think I need something stronger than cake.” He huffed. 

“Oh I don’t know. Bahorel’s rum cake has been known to cause hangovers.” 

“What’s that about my cake?!” they heard Bahorel roar in the background. Then the sound was muffled; Combeferre must have pressed the phone into his neck to address him properly. They could still make out Bahorel’s roaring responses, though. 

Well, perhaps response was the wrong word. Bahorel was drunk and ignoring anything Combeferre was saying to him in favour of blasting out more questions. 

“It’s that Enjolras? Tell him to get his pretty ass down here! We’re waiting on you Enjy!” 

The corner of Enjolras’ mouth twitched, which caused Courfeyrac to crack a full smile. 

“I got out of work early for this!” that was Feuilly, before he was audibly elbowed out toe conversation by someone declaring that they wanted to “cut the cake already!” 

A few stern words from Combeferre returned calm to the conversation, although somebody could still be heard muttering about cake in the background. 

Enjolras hunched his shoulders up by his ears and screwed his eyes closed. He was struggling with a mix of conflicting emotions. The promise of a distraction was tempting, but he felt guilty even considering it. Half of him was still waiting for Grantaire to come skidding into the lounge, colliding with the bookshelf and sending everything toppling to the floor with a loud string of curse words. What if he came home whilst Enjolras was out? What if he came back injured and Enjolras wasn’t here to help him? 

“It’s up to you Enjolras. I know you’re going to be worried until Grantaire gets back –” 

“Grantaire?” Bahorel cut in, voice still fighting to be louder than the music. “He’s here. It’s just you we’re waiting on!” 

For a second white noise filled Enjolras’ ears. He snapped his head towards the phone and recoiled. The chair was still tight within his grip and rocked back with the movement. Rolling onto its back legs the arms were thrown, crashing, into the underside of the table. The clatter seemed to bring Enjolras back into the room. 

“What?” he spat. “He’s _where?_ ” 

Courfeyrac was just a shocked. He sat with his eyebrows knitted together in stunned confusion. 

“Here. At the bar, he is off. His. Face.” Bahorel laughed. “I’ve never seen him this bad – not since… no, never. Oh man, you need to get down here –” 

The tinny thump, thump, thump of a bass line echoed round the kitchen for a moment until Combeferre’s voice resumed control of the phone. “It’s true, he’s sitting at the bar –” 

Enjolras had heard enough. He hung up, head reeling. His thoughts were buzzing in a thousand different directions at once. Only one thing was clear, 

“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him. I’m _fucking_. Kill him.” 

“Enjolras – ” Courfeyrac hesitated. There was a fury burning bright behind Enjolras’ eyes like nothing Courfeyrac had seen before. It stayed him for a moment. 

Throwing the chair towards the floor Enjolras tore down the hallway. He was out of the front door before Courfeyrac had even processed the thought of following him. 

“Shit,” he mumbled, stumbling to his feet and fleeing after Enjolras. 

He was already reversing down the driveway when Courf caught up. He had to physically throw his hands down on the bonnet to get Enjolras to stop. 

“Enjolras!” he shouted through the windscreen, chest heaving with anxious breaths. The blind rage in Enjolras’ eyes was terrifying, feral. When he peered up at Courfeyrac, half obscured by the dying rays of sunlight bouncing off the glass, he almost snarled. 

It was a bad decision letting him drive, but Courf didn’t dare tell him not to. He prayed to every god he could think of, and somehow they made it to the bar in one piece. Pulling to a furious stop, Enjolras abandoned the car across three parking spaces; blocking half a dozen others in. He slammed the door hard enough to shake the window and stormed towards the bar, not even bothering to lock the car. In an uncoordinated panic, Courfeyrac scrambled to follow him. 

“Enjolras –” he shouted after him. 

But Enjolras wasn’t listening to anything other than the rage bubbling in his ears. How dare Grantaire disappear to a bar for umpteen hours, letting Enjolras think he was dead? 

He froze in the darkened doorway. 

The low lighting, made it difficult to see clearly. But Enjolras didn’t need to see clearly to recognise the figure slumped at the bar. He’d recognise that silhouette anywhere. He side stepped round a group of barely-twenty-one-year-olds huddled before an outstretched cell phone. Twisted to push shoulder first through a gaggle of people trying to order drinks, and then there he was. Face to face with Grantaire.


	3. Chapter 3

_September 1995 (Grantaire is 23)_

The room was swimming in soft light. Muted grey from the curtain window mingled with a warm glow seeping through the doorframe. Every now and then flashes of red and white would sweep across the ceiling as cars passed outside. A stereo was blaring downstairs, traffic filtered through the glass. The pipes hummed, the floorboards creaked and loud angry conversations came from the floors above and below. Grantaire breathed slowly and lost himself in the noise and the light. There was far too much caffeine and god knows what else coursing through his veins for him to feel even remotely sleepy; even lying on this bed, head resting amongst the soft pillows, body supported by the firm, comfortable mattress. He felt like he was floating. Or flying. 

He squinted, fracturing the light, letting the colours bleed together in his vision. He didn’t know how long he been lying like that. It could have been minutes; it could easily have been hours. He was possessed by a strange desire to lie there forever. He probably would have done if the door hadn’t opened at that moment. 

There was a beat of silence where the room was flooded in harsh artificial light from the hallway. Grantaire propped himself up on his elbows to investigate the disturbance. Montparnasse stood in the doorway for a few moments, just staring at him. Backlight from the glow of 60 watt bulbs which dusted his shoulders, curved around his hips, caught in the hem of his jacket and the fine strands of hair; he seemed to glow. Grantaire filed away the image to sketch later. His sketches amused Montparnasse. He’d mock them and ridicule them, but he enjoyed the ego boost of being someone’s muse. It appealed to his sensibilities of affectation. 

“You’re fucking lazy.” Montparnasse sounded impressed that Grantaire was still in bed. 

Grantaire vaguely remembered him leaving on some super important, super-secret business. Probably that morning, although it could have been the day before. Grantaire had only left the bed for caffeine, alcohol and to shoot up whatever it was that Parnasse kept in the wardrobe. He managed a lazy smile, sitting up properly and dragging a hand through his hair. 

Montparnasse kicked the door shut with a boot clad foot and threw his jacket over the sofa on his way towards the bed. It was a large room. Fucking huge. Bigger than the broom closet Grantaire called a flat. The bed was a kingsize monstrosity of soft sheets, not silk like you might have expected, just incredibly comfortable Egyptian cotton with the highest thread count imaginable. It really wasn’t so surprising that Grantaire was still in bed. 

“What am I going to do with you?” Montparnasse crossed the plains of the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed. His gaze scanned across Grantaire; tangled in the sheets with unwashed hair and day old boxers. 

“You’re disgusting. You know that.” 

“But I’m _your_ disgusting,” he replied with a smug grin. 

“More fool me.” 

Grantaire really didn’t know what Montparnasse saw in him. But he didn’t question it. The bed was heavenly, the drugs were cheap and plentiful, and the sex was fantastic. He didn’t need to know the motivation. 

In one smooth motion, ‘Parnasse pulled his t-shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor. He left a black bead chain around his neck, which graced his collar bones and fell onto his chest. Black beads on porcelain skin, it was so deliciously artistic. His jeans were slung low; Grantaire could see his hip bones, bracketing the inviting ‘v’ shape which dipped below the waist band. He wanted to pull ‘Parnasse close and devour him. The prospect alone had him growing hard. 

Montparnasse smiled with something wicked in his expression. Grantaire suspected that he wasn’t going to get away that easily. 

“What am I going to do with you?” he repeated, studying Grantaire from the foot of the bed. Grantaire didn’t move. He waited, hands propped on the bed behind him, legs tangled in the sheets, patiently anticipating the verdict. 

“Can’t have your lazy ass disgracing my bed all day and expect to get away with it.” He grinned. It struck Grantaire as the sort of smile a wolf might show a deer before pouncing. It sent a tingle to his toes. 

“Get on your knees.” 

Grantaire cocked an eyebrow, “Oh, yeah? Give me one good reason.” He had every intention of obeying; he just wanted to hear Montparnasse really ask. 

“I’ll give you two.” Montparnasse stepped towards the bed and pressed his knee onto the mattress. It dipped under his weight. Grantaire arched forwards. “You’re in my fucking bed. On my fucking drugs. Now get on your knees.” 

Grantaire complied with as much grace as he could manage. Pushing himself forwards and curling his knees under him. iIt brought him almost nose to nose with Montparnasse. With a lopsided smile he ducked in for a kiss. It was returned with a force which had him rocking back until his thighs were flush with his calves. Parnasse pulled away with a tug at Grantaire’s lower lip and a growled instruction not to move. 

He stood up and produced a pair of zip ties from his backpocket. Grantaire didn’t even blink. Of course Parnasse carried zip ties and lock picks, and who knew what else in his pockets. 

He raised an eyebrow holding them towards Grantaire, who nodded. It was about as much negotiation as ever took place. Although Grantaire had made it clear early on that he wanted whatever Montparnasse was prepared to give him. 

The mattress dipped again, this time behind Grantaire as Montparnasse reached to pull Grantaire’s hands behind his back, securing his wrists together with the tie. He caught the end in his teeth and pulled tight with a sharp ‘zip’. The sensation went straight to Grantaire’s cock. 

Parnasse moved to bite at Grantaire’s shoulder, his breath tickling Grantaire’s neck. He caught sight of the unmistakable bulge in Grantaire’s boxers and laughed, teeth scraping at the skin on Grantaire’s shoulder. 

“Somebody likes that.” he growled, and ghosted a hand round Grantaire’s hip. It dipped below the elastic waistband, slender fingers wrapping themselves around Grantaire’s erection. 

Grantaire moaned and shifted his hips into the touch. His hands searching to return the favour, brushing against the bare skin of Montparnasse’s’ stomach. 

And then he was gone. Touch retracted and weight lifted from the mattress. He slipped round to the foot of the bed, towering over Grantaire, hips cocked, head angled as he took in the sight of Grantaire, bound, hard and desperate. He smiled again. 

Grantaire’s breath was short as he stared up eagerly. Montparnasse still had his boots on. His legs were clad in tight, dark denim. The black beads were rising and falling with each breath. His plump lips were pushed together, and his hair was just beginning to fall from its coiffed style. It might have been the drugs, it might have been the way Parnasse was looking at him, it might have been the zip tie, but Grantaire had never been so turned on in his life. 

He leant up on his knees, craving Monteparnasse’s touch. He bit his lips, arched his neck and waited. 

And waited. 

The door burst open. 

“Montparnasse,” the intruder shouted. 

“What?” he snapped, eyes flaring as he twisted to the see the door. 

“There’s a problem at the docks,”Brujon, shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly not glad to be the bearer of bad news. 

“What do I even pay you imbeciles for?!” Montparnasse grabbed his shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head, already on his way to the door. 

Almost as an afterthought he turned to Grantaire. 

“Don’t move. I’m not finished with you yet.” 

Finished? They hadn’t even started. 

Brujon smirked as the sight of Grantaire, half naked and hard, kneeling abandoned on the bed. Grantaire was too frustrated to care. 

The door closed and Grantaire was left in the dark. His shoulders slumped as much as possible and he sunk back onto his calves. He didn’t try to fight the zip tie at first, but time wore on and it became clear Parnasse wasn’t coming back any time soon. Probably forgotten, Grantaire thought miserably. Or arrested. 

He didn’t really know what Montparnasse and his little circle of friends did. Grantaire was pretty sure it was illegal, and that he was probably better off not knowing. He had the feeling of being part of some inner circle of organised crime, but it tried to stay out of it. Whatever it was. 

He rolled onto his side and buried his face into the pillow. Trying to ignore the ache in his shoulders and the growing throbbing in his head. It started as a dull ache, just there, letting him know he was sobering up. Before long it was an excruciating throb which stabbed at his temples whenever he so much as breathed. 

He needed a drink, caffeine, a high, anything. Screwing his eyes shut, he pressed his face into the pillows, whimpering at the pain. There were drugs in the wardrobe, he knew that. He was beginning to regret having taken them earlier. He always forgot about afterwards. The wardrobe wasn’t so far away. But he’d need his hands to shoot. He pushed out of bed and staggered through the gloom. There had to be a knife in here somewhere, Montparnasse was the definitely the sort of person to have an armoury, probably stashed alongside his scarves. 

He shoved his shoulder into the closet door to open it, and began moving boxes and objects around with his foot. 

The pain was mounting, his temper fraying. He wanted to scream. He tugged at the zip tie until the thin plastic bit into his skin. But it was no use. Ready to give up, he sunk to his knees. 

_July, 2005 (Grantaire is 23 and 33)_

Rather than soft carpet, his knees were met with rough tarmac. His hands move instinctively to break his fall and he found that they were no longer bound. His palms scrapped against loose gravel… 

It too him a few moments to realise he’d Travelled. He stayed put, hands splayed on the sidewalk, just staring at the red welts on his wrists and trying to gather his thoughts. His inability to take anything with him when he Travelled apparently wasn’t extended to headaches. With slow, shaky movements, he pushed himself to his feet and began to stagger down the sidewalk. 

It was dark, and this part of town was deserted. He passed closed-up shops, none of which held the possibility of clothes, not that he was sure he’d have the energy to break in anyway. Thankfully, he passed a charity shop which mercifully had two bin liners of donations sat on the step. He dropped to his knees and ripped through the plastic, letting the donated clothes spill onto the sidewalk. Unfortunately, they were full of children’s clothes. The only promising items were a pair of khaki shorts and an orange t-shirt which looked just large enough to fit. Still, he’d worn worse, and it was better than nothing. Although it was going to be damn near impossible to get into a bar dressed like this though. Especially as he had no I.D. on him. It was lucky he hadn’t shaved in the past few days. 

He dragged a hand down his chin feeling the stubble bristle against his fingers. He still needed cash. And shoes. 

= 

His hands were shaking and his head was pounding by the time he happened upon a car with a lovely briefcase in the back seat. It was parked in front of an apartment building, the type which tried to look upmarket, without actually being upmarket. He felt a little guilty about smashing his elbow through the window, but not enough to stop him. The car alarm began to screech. He grabbed the briefcase and tore down the sidewalk, disappearing into an alleyway and vaulting the chain link fence into the street beyond. He didn’t slow down until his lungs were burning and he couldn’t see through the blinding pain in his head. When he did, he fell against a wall unable to remain upright. Sliding down against the brick, ignoring the way it scraped against his back, he crumbled into the sidewalk and dragged the briefcase in front of him. He didn’t have time for pessimistic thoughts. It there wasn’t a wallet in here, he was going to curl up on the pavement and pray he passed out. 

There was a wallet. 

And a tiny, sleek flip phone, which meant he’d Travelled into the future. 

He sat up a little at that prospect. The future was always interesting. He flipped the phone open and stared at the date. July 6th, 2005. 

Somewhere in the world a thirty-three year old version old himself was wandering around. Grantaire wondered if he was still as pathetic, still itching for something to numb the pain. 

He tucked the phone into the pocket of the khaki’s and rifled through the wallet. Just over a hundred dollars in cash, a couple of credit cards with a signature that didn’t look too difficult to forge, and a driving license. 

Grantaire held it up, squinting in the dim light. 

“Sorry, Gregory Bourke,” he told the picture. It actually didn’t look too dissimilar from him. Gregory was clean cut man of twenty eight. His dark hair was swept back from his face, but he had a long thin nose not too unlike Grantaire’s. In the dim light of a bar it would work. Grantaire had certainly used worse identification in the past. 

He pocketed the wallet and stood up. 

= 

“Grantaire?” the voice sounded incredulous. Grantaire stopped in his tracks and turned with caution to face the speaker. 

The speaker brushed his hood back from his face and grinned at Grantaire. Sunken eyes, crooked teeth and a straggly mane of greying chestnut hair; “Brujon?” Grantaire almost couldn’t believe his eyes. He stepped forwards into the side street and gaped at the fellow. 

He’d aged considerably in the ten years since which had passed for him. Almost unrecognisable from that smug faced sap who’d burst into Montparnasse’s bedroom a few hours ago. Were it not for the scar which tracked his from his eyebrow to his cheekbone, Grantaire might not have recognised him. He wasn’t especially pleased to see him either. They’d never got on very well. Grantaire had never known why, but Brujon always seemed to have it in for him. 

“Lost your shoes?” Brujon smirked. 

The same smirk. Suddenly Grantaire was annoyed. His pounding head left no room for patience. Brujon could have cut him free, at least told someone he was up there. Ripples of anxiety began to churn in Grantaire’s guts; fears that it had all been an elaborate plan, that it had been Montparnasses’ intention to turn him on and abandon to him withdrawal all along. 

“You selling?” Grantaire snapped. 

“Haven’t changed much, have you?”Brujon smiled; a picture of a hypocrite. 

Grantaire glared at him as an answer. 

“Alright, yeah. For you, a special deal. 250 for an ounce.” 

“You have got to be fucking kidding,” 

Brujon smirked again. What remained of Grantaire’s temper frayed. He could always take Brujon in a fight and this time he had and extra ten years of youth and agility on his side. Even with a pounding headache and limbs itching for something strong, it didn’t take more than a couple of jabs to Brujon’s stomach to bring in to his knees. And kick to his shoulder and he went sprawling backwards. 

Grantaire kept his foot pressed to Brujon’s chest as he searched his coat pockets, finding an array of plastic bags inside the left breast. He wasn’t needlessly cruel; he didn’t take more than he needed. But there was a nice roll of fifties in the right pocket. Which he did take. 

He made it a few steps before he turned and stole Brujon’s shoes for good measure. 

Wheezed curse words were shouted after him, but Grantaire didn’t stick around to listen to them. 

His knuckles were bruised, the shoes were a size too small, his head was agony and his veins felt empty. Smiling through the pain he sprinted away from the side street. Hailing a taxi, he slumped into the back seat and pressed his fore finger and thumb into his eyes. Once his breathing calmed he instructed the driver to take him across town. To any decent bar he could find.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smile was wonky and lopsided and should be been familiar, but R’s eyes were darker…empty. It was disconcerting, it was wrong. Enjolras shuddered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay between chapters! My life has been pretty hectic lately (for those of you who don't know, I recently moved house), but I'm all settled in now, and can hopefully get back to writing more regularly :)
> 
> As always, thanks to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) for sanity checking my ideas :)

_July, 2005 (Enjolras is 30, Grantaire is 33 and 23)_

Sidewalk, bouncer, dim lighting, bathroom, sudden rush, loud music, bright lights, bar stool, counter top, cool glass, drink, drink, drink. 

Grantaire slumped at the bar completely oblivious to anything happening around him. He was pleasantly numb and Gregory Burke’s credit card was keeping the drinks flowing. He stared through the glass, watching the fractured lights from the bar bouncing back. Warm hues of red and gold. The music rumbled just loud enough to block the crowded conversations, but not too loud that you had to shout to be heard. He knew he was forgetting something, was he supposed to be angry at someone? With the satisfying buzz running through his veins it was difficult to care. 

“R?” 

A hand pressed down on his shoulder, pulling him from his examination of the glass. Grantaire turned and blinked at the man behind the hand. He must have been hallucinating, that was it. There was no way those golden curls, which made the sun seem like a pale mockery of light, were real. It was even more unbelievable that he knew Grantaire by name. 

“Now,” he managed to slur, “That put’s me at a disadvantage. Because I don’t know who you are,” he told the hallucination. “I think I’d remember a face like that, and hair.” He drained his drink and glanced back at Enjolras, staring at his shoulder, not meeting his eyes. He traced the collar of his shirt, the chiselled lines of his collar bones, the hollow dip at the base of his throat. This couldn’t be a hallucination; it was too perfect, too tangible. Grantaire’s imagination could never conjure something this pure. Enjolras a rooted to the spot. His mind reeling. Bahorel hadn’t been wrong in his description, Grantaire truly looked worse than Enjolras had ever seen him. In the instant that their eyes had locked, Enjolras had noticed they were bloodshot and glazed. Grantaire was high, and very, very drunk. 

The knot of worry filly his gut once more; his Grantaire was still lost somewhere. He didn’t know how to process this. He shouldn’t have left the kitchen. 

Grantaire shifted his gaze back to Enjolras’ hair; following the fall of a curl. “s’like spun gold,” He wanted to wrap it round his finger, but he wouldn’t dare. “from that story…are you rump-pe, rheum…wait, I got this,” he screwed his eyes shut and brought his hand up to his forehead as he racked his brains. “ironic that I can’t remember it,” he grinned, hoping to make the possible-hallucination smile. It only made him look ill. 

The smile was wonky and lopsided and should be been familiar, but R’s eyes were darker…empty. It was disconcerting, it was wrong. Enjolras shuddered. 

“s’the whole point of the story, isn’t it?” Grantaire continued, dropping his smile and turning back to his empty glass. He’d lost track of things, why were they discussing Rumpelstiltskin anyway? He’d never liked that story. “You know I never much liked that story.” He told the stranger. “Everyone’s too greedy. Even the girl. And I always felt sorry for the little guy. He saved her life three times, he just wants to get paid. Then he goes and stomps himself into the ground,” 

Enjolras didn’t understand a word Grantaire was saying. 

“R,” he said again. Unable to do much more. 

Grantaire stopped his rambling to glance up at him. His brow creased. The angelic stranger seemed sad. Far sadder than anyone that pretty had any right to be. 

“You need shots,” he concluded, feeling very proud of himself for the decision. 

Enjolras watched, impressed as Grantaire managed to catch the attention of the bar tender and order a round of whisky shots. Anyone else that drunk would have been in a heap on the floor. Enjolras recoiled at the realisation that Grantaire was this good at being drunk because he’d spent most of his early twenties in an alcohol induced daze. It was one thing to hear stories distanced by time, strewn out on the sofa with his hands in Grantaire’s hair. It was completely different to see it played out before him. 

The shots arrived and Enjolras knocked two back before he could stop himself. 

Grantaire gave a messy cheer. He almost slipped off his seat, but managed to catch himself on the bar and shuffled himself back onto the bar stool with a concentrated effort. From his grin of accomplishment, you’d thought he’d climbed Everest. Although when he span round to suggest more shots he was a little exuberant with the movement, and this time couldn’t catch himself. He clattered sideways and collided into the group of people beside him. A round of drinks were toppled over, spilling everywhere. 

“Fucking hell, what the fuck –” a string of angry profanities were unleashed from the drink sodden group. 

Enjolras darted forwards to help Grantaire back to his feet. He ignored the half-hearted protests; Grantaire could barely support his own weight anymore, let alone find his feet. 

“’m’alright, m’alright,” Grantaire mumbled as he allowed Enjolras to haul him to his feet. His thoughts were clouding, perhaps those last shots hadn’t been a good idea. But Blondie didn’t look sad anymore. Angry maybe, but it suited him far more than sad. Grantaire lolled his head towards Enjolras and grinned from under the dark curls which were strewn across his face. “Wow you’re pretty.” He hiccupped and giggled. Enjolras had never heard him giggle before. Snigger, yes, chuckle, out-right roar with laughter. But never giggle. It made Enjolras smile, which made Grantaire giggle again. 

“You ‘gonna pay for these drinks, or what?” a voice demanded. 

When Enjolras glanced up he saw it belong to a large man with unnaturally spiked hair a shiny blue shirt, now stained with a large splodge which was seeping outwards. 

“’mm ‘gonna go with…what.” Grantaire replied after a beat, with a cheeky smile. He’d succeeded in making the sad angel smile, he could accomplish anything. 

“Excuse you?” 

“Thank you kindly,” he mimed the motion of doffing his cap. 

Enjolras tried to drag Grantaire away before the scene could escalate, but the confrontation seemed to have refreshed his lucidity. He wriggled free from Enjolras’ arm to square up the affronted man, bolstered by a drunken confidence, and bad habit of picking fights. 

Enjolras had to steer him away, pushing against him with more strength that should be necessary – given how unsteady Grantaire appeared to be on his feet. Enjolras cursed Grantaire’s low centre of gravity and stubborn will power. He needed to get back to the kitchen, and he wasn’t about to leave this Grantaire here, despite how difficult it was making things. 

“Where’re we going?” he asked, looking back at the bar with longing. “Shots…” the confrontation had slipped his mind already. 

“I’m taking you home,” Enjolras told Grantaire, forgetting momentarily that this incarnation didn’t know who he was. 

“Steady on,” Grantaire smirked. “I’ll have you know that I am gentleman. You have to buy me –” he hiccupped again, “what was I talking about?” he stopped resisting Enjolras’ and finally allowed himself to be dragged towards the exit. Enjolras led him through the crowds of people, trying and failing to counterbalance his stumbling steps. 

“Enjolras.” 

Combeferre stepped in front of them both, he assessed the situation in a millisecond and darted to catch Grantaire’s other side before he brought both himself and Enjolras crashing to the floor. Grantaire didn’t seem to mind, he let his head fall against Combeferre’s shoulder as a lazy smile spread across his face. 

Seeing that Combeferre hadn’t been reprimanded for approaching them, the others flooded over; Bahorel leading the way carrying a giant rum cake, dripping with brown sugar icing. Enjolras might have been surprised that he was allowed into the bar with such a thing, but it was Bahorel. No one ever seemed to want to argue with him. 

“Happy Birthday,” he boomed, accompanied by toots on party horns, played by Bossuet and Jehan. 

“Birthday boy?” Grantaire slurred, now just looking confused. 

“My god, you’re wasted aren’t you?” Bahorel laughed at Grantaire. 

Grantaire nodded and smiled. He hiccupped again and then froze, staring at the floor and blinking. For a moment it looked like he might throw up, but the moment passed and he resumed blinking around the group in a drunken gaze. 

“I think I need to go home,” he told Bahorel. 

“Yeah, good plan, buddy.” 

“Give me a ride?” Grantaire unhooked himself from Combeferre and Enjolras and took a few stumbling steps forwards. 

Bahorel managed to hand the cake to Feuilly before Grantaire collapsed on him. 

“I think Enjolras should take you, dude,” 

“Who?” Grantaire blinked up at Bahorel, his chin resting on Bahorel’s chest. 

“How much did you drink?” Bahorel laughed. 

A slight panic settled over those who knew. For all his years of friendship with Bahorel, Grantaire had somehow never told him about his condition. Enjolras didn’t quite known how Grantaire had kept it a secret, but he didn’t want to be the one the break it. But how could he not? Bahorel was waiting for him to comment, and for all intents and purposes it appeared that Grantaire was so blindingly drunk that he’d forgotten about Enjolras’ birthday. Forgotten about Enjolras completely. 

“Your shirt is really stripy,” Grantaire commented, poking Bahorel’s chest. 

“Home.” Bahorel said placing his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders and turning him round. He gave him a little push in Enjolras’ direction. 

“Hullo Rumple,” Grantaire’s grin was wonky but still rather endearing. Perhaps it was the fact that he was also high, or just because he was so very drunk, but Enjolras had never seen Grantaire this type of endearing drunk before. Usually he more prone to get angry and go off on long tangents. 

“You okay to take him home?” 

“Yeah, of course,” 

“You know him?” Grantaire swung an uncoordinated punch at Bahorel, which bounced off his arm with no visible impact. “ _Dude_. Where was the introduction?” 

“Oh my god, what did you take?” Bahorel stooped to peer into Grantaire’s glazed eyes. 

Thankfully Jehan decided to take the matter into his own hands. He pushed past Bahorel, handing him the party horn and streamer strewn hat he’d been wearing, and wrapped his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders. 

“Prouvaire!” Grantaire cheered. 

“In the flesh,” Jehan returned with a smile. “C’mon chuck, let’s get you home.” 

He steered Grantaire from the bar, shooting Enjolras a look which told him to follow. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were also close on his heels.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clock on the mantelpiece ticked monotonously as Grantaire collected himself, reveling in the safety of his own home; his own time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very sorry that it's taken me this long to update!! I still have plans for this fic and it will get finished one day, I promise. In honour of Barricade Day I thought I should start posting updates once again :) I hope you like it!
> 
> As always, thanks to Kim for cheerleading and proof reading this fic, and to all of you for continuing to read it.

Grantaire landed on the living floor with a thump. He fell forwards, too dazed to throw his hands out and catch himself. The stale stench of the jail cell faded as he buried his nose in the soft fibers of their rug. Oh god, it was good to be home. With shaky limbs he pushed himself up so that he was sitting on the floor; naked and disorientated. Dusk was settling outside sending orange sun light spilling through from the kitchen, and the house was quiet with emptiness. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked monotonously as Grantaire collected himself, reveling in the safety of his own home; his own time.

Once his head had stopped spinning he forced himself to his feet and stumbled towards the kitchen, bare feet padding on the ceramic tiles. He noticed there was a load of washing sitting in the tumble dryer and he helped himself to a pair of jeans and one of Enjolras’ charity shirts before pulling open the fridge in search of food. Condensation trickled down the back wall as he surveyed the empty shelves; a half empty jar of olives, a moldy pepper and some questionable looking chicken. It wasn’t an appetising sight, still his stomach gave a low growl of hunger as he surveyed the slim pickings. With a frown Grantaire plucked the jar of olives from the top shelf and closed the door. Unscrewing the cap he shook a couple of olives into his mouth and glanced around a little helplessly. How long had he been gone?

The duration of his Travels didn’t always match the length of his absence. He’d once spent near on seventeen hours fending for himself out near Rockford, only to return five minutes later just in time for a reading he’d been hosting at the library. Needless to say his colleagues had been less than impressed to find that Grantaire was half asleep on his feet at 3 in the afternoon.

This time though it looked like the five days he’d endured in rural Indiana had been accounted for by five days of his real time. He stared at the calendar with a crushing sense of realisation; he’d missed Enjolras’ birthday. Of course he had. He kicked a chair and cursed loudly. Just for once couldn’t he catch a break?

Thinking of Enjolras, Grantaire began to wonder where he was. He picked up the phone from the cradle in the hall and was about to phone Enjolras’ cell when he heard the crunch of tyres on the drive and saw headlights sweeping across the front door.

“R! Jesus Christ.” Courfeyrac pushed the door open and balked, his hand clutched to his chest in fright. “You trying to give me a heart attack?”

But Grantaire wasn’t paying any attention; far too preoccupied with staring at the half conscious figure being carried towards the house by Combeferre and Jehan. The man stumbled, head lolling and giddy drunken mumblings spewing from his mouth. He wobbled up the drive with a dizzying meander of footsteps, guided only by Combeferre’s strong grip under his shoulders and Jehan’s steering. His hair was longer and his frame much thinner, almost skeletal, but it was very clearly Grantaire. A much younger Grantaire. But that was impossible; he had no recollection of this moment. The younger version of himself stopped in his tracks and, after an uncertain moment, threw up in the rose bushes that lined the path to the front door. Ah, perhaps that was why Grantaire didn’t remember this incident.

“Sorry.” He apologised to everyone on behalf of his inebriated self. “We’d better take him upstairs. What happened?”

“We found him – you, um,” Courfeyrac faltered, his eyes darting between the figure being helped upstairs and the Grantaire standing before him. “In a bar. He was pretty far gone.”

“I can see that.” Grantaire’s mind was reeling, trying to place where his younger self might have come from.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras gasped, too stunned to do anything other than gape at him for a moment. He’d dragged himself from the car with a lethargic air and trooped up to the house, ready to throw himself under his duvet and drown in a sea of guilty longing as he waited for his Grantaire, the real Grantaire, to come home. But here he was, plain as day. Enjolras almost couldn’t believe his eyes.

He stopped in the doorway. His jacket had slipped off one shoulder, his hair was fraying and his face was crumpled with distress. For a moment Enjolras was the picture of the lost thirteen year old Grantaire had once found in the meadow, distressed after one too many arguments with his parents.  And then Enjolras lunged at Grantaire, throwing his arms around Grantaire’s neck with a force and an intensity that winded him.

“Happy birthday,” Grantaire said softly. “I missed you.”

“I love you.” Enjolras told him. “You were gone too long.”

He didn’t ask Grantaire to promise not to leave again, it was a promise they both knew wasn’t possible, but Grantaire could read the desperate pleading in his eyes.

=

Leaving Enjolras in the kitchen with Courfeyrac and a steaming mug of tea, Grantaire traipsed upstairs to face the failings of his youth. He found himself passed out on the bed in the guest room whilst Combeferre mopped at his face with a damp cloth and Jehan rummaged around in the closet to find some towels. 

He almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. Instead he scratched at the back of his neck and told the others to leave. They shouldn’t have to deal with this.

“It’s alright,” he said. “I’ll sort him out. You go downstairs and enjoy the rest of your night.”

Combeferre hesitated, clearly loathe to leave the younger Grantaire in such a position.

“Go on. He’ll be fine.” Grantaire gestured to himself as evidence – forgetting that he had a lovely swollen black eye and more than one partially healed scape on his arms (running through a thicket with next to no clothes on hadn’t been his brightest idea).

Jehan piqued an eyebrow at him. “If you’re sure?”

“Seriously, you’ve done enough.”

“Alright.” He passed Grantaire the towel with a sympathetic look on his way out. “Shout if you need anything.”

Combeferre hesitated. “At least let me at least see to our eye?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“I’ll be right back.” Combeferre crossed the hall to fetch the first aid kit, leaving Grantaire alone with his sleeping double.

Someone, presumably Combeferre, had rolled him into the recovery position and he was sleeping like the dead. His long hair was splayed out on the pillow, a tangle of dark curls contrasting with his sickly pale skin. His nose was long and straight, missing the crooked lump Grantaire had acquired from a fist fight in 1997, and the long hair placed him sometime after 1994 when Grantaire had experimented to see if growing it out would help tame the curls. It hadn’t, but he’d grown almost fond of the way it brushed across his shoulders, hiding his face if he so chose. And Montparnasse had always been fond of them. Montparnasse. Grantaire had always used the heaviest during his time with ‘Parnasse, when drugs been in no short supply. That would certainly explain the sorry state his other self was in. 

He sat on the bed beside himself, and brushed the curls from the face of his younger counterpart.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” he asked in a quiet voice. Hating that he knew just why, and that nothing he could do would change it. In a matter of minutes, or maybe hours, the other Grantaire would find himself back in the past – in his present. There weren’t very many happy memories that came from the years between 1994 and 1997, and Grantaire hated to think of himself living through them all over again.

“Don’t go back there.” He told himself. “Don’t go back. Find Jehan, get yourself cleaned up and sorted out. Enjolras is only a few years away.” He was breaking protocol and telling himself facts about the future, but it didn’t matter. The sleeping form beside him was dead to the world. Grantaire knew he would remember nothing of this encounter. “Don’t go back.”

He felt tears welling behind his eyes, a sob building in the back of his throat. He chocked it down and sniffed them back. Standing up, he turned to the window, squinting to refract the light of the street lamps into orange bursts.

“Grantaire?” Combeferre knocked lightly on the door.

Grantaire cleared his throat with a cough and turned back to Combeferre with a forced smile. “Hey, doc.”

Combeferre placed the first aid on the bed and beckoned Grantaire over. “That’s a pretty nasty bruise you have there, what happened?”

“A farmer caught me sleeping in his barn. He hit me with the butt of his rifle before calling the cops.” It had caught Grantaire on his cheekbone, bruising the underside of his eye and giving him a nasty little cut that opened itself up every time he grimaced.

Combeferre dabbed around Grantaire’s eye with an anti-septic wipe. Even though he knew the sting was coming, Grantaire still flinched.

“I’m just glad he didn’t shoot me,” he laughed.

Combeferre didn’t seem to think it was very funny, so Grantaire stopped laughing. Silence hung between them for a beat, whilst Grantaire pointedly looked at the dresser behind Combeferre. A stack of books balanced preciously on the edge next to a mug that most definitely needed washing up.

“Enjolras was very worried about you.” Combeferre broke the silence eventually.

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

Grantaire flicked his eyes back to Combeferre, he was very close and they shared an uncomfortable moment of scrutiny before Grantaire looked away. He’d seen enough, too much. He knew Combeferre was right.

“You never see him in your absences. He just stops.” Combeferre explained. “The longer you’re gone the less he functions. I know it’s not your fault and I’m not blaming you.” He added. “And I’m sure you’ve considered treatment..?”

Grantaire sighed. “Ferre. I’ve been to every specialist and ‘ologist you could imagine. None of them believed me. Most of them thought I was mad.”

Combeferre just hummed. He placed a steri strip neatly over Grantaire’s cheekbone to hold the cut closed. Experience had taught them both that stiches were generally more hassle than then were worth when it came to Grantaire. “All done.”

Grantaire traced it gently with his fingers. “Thank you.”

Combeferre smiled, distracted. Grantaire could tell he was building up to saying something – something he knew Grantaire wasn’t going to like.

“I know a doctor, a geneticist." Comberre said at last. "He’s a little unorthodox, but top of his field. I really think he could help.”

“Ferre,” Grantaire warned. He’d done being poked at and prodded like a test subject. He’d endured being laughed out of every doctor’s office, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let them conduct any more psych tests on him.

“Just, trust me?” Combeferre asked. “I think he would want to meet you.”

Honestly, it was hard not to trust Combeferre. But Grantaire had been down this road too many times. There just wasn’t a cure.

Behind him the other Grantaire began to snore. He glanced over his shoulder and frowned, thinking  of Enjolras, of the desperate pleading in his eyes and the force with which he’d held onto Grantaire.

“What the hell. How do I contact him?”

“Doctor Joly. He has an office in the University of Chicago Hospital.” Combeferre handed Grantaire a business card, and Grantaire couldn’t help wondering how long he’d been carrying it around.

Grantaire studied the small piece of card, irritated by the little bubble of hope that began to swell in his chest. There was nothing to be done to fix him. He was only going to end up disappointed. He pocketed the card and thanked Combeferre, trying to sound sincere.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire itched to join them. He knew it would raise a thousand questions – not limited to explaining how he’d aged 10 years in 10 minutes or how he’d sobered up so quickly – but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon Enjolras; not when he’d missed so much already.

Certain that his younger self was sleeping soundly, Grantaire hopped into the shower and began to scrub the memory of the jail cell from himself. Although he didn’t take anything with him when he travelled, including dirt or grime, the memories of the cold dank cell and the stale sweat stained pants and hoodie they’d given him, lingered. They’d held him without charge – thankfully – and luckily he’d travelled before they’d managed to get a name out of him or bother to take his finger prints. He wasn’t sure _when_ he’d been; the technology had looked like outdated 80s models, but given that it was a backward police station out in the middle of rural Indiana, that didn’t speak volumes. The last thing Grantaire needed was his fingerprints on file with an arrest history dotted across the Midwest and dated erratically, but he knew it was only a matter of time before he was forced to give up some information about himself.

He lathered his hair into a thick soapy mess and scrubbed himself with shower gel, letting the warm water cascade around him and filling the bathroom with buffets of hot steam. They had a pretty large water tank but all too soon the shower began to grow cold. Grantaire leaped out before he could be doused with icy water and twisted the taps off at the wall. He was drying himself with a large cream coloured bath sheet – the ones they usually reserved for guests – when he heard a startled gasp from the bedroom. Not bothering to wrap the towel around himself properly, Grantaire rushed into the bedroom to find that it was empty. Nothing but a crumpled imprint on the duvet and an empty t-shirt and trousers was left of his younger self; well other than the clusterfuck of confusion that lingered downstairs.

Grantaire could hear loud conversations swelling from the kitchen; recognising Bahorel’s deep voice and Bossuet’s unmistakable melodic laugh. Clearly they’d decided to move the birthday celebrations home. Grantaire was glad: Enjolras deserved to have his friends around him. They sounded light-hearted and jovial, and Grantaire itched to join them. He knew it would raise a thousand questions – not limited to explaining how he’d aged 10 years in 10 minutes or how he’d sobered up so quickly – but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon Enjolras; not when he’d missed so much already.

Wrapping himself in the towel, Grantaire proceeded to tidy up the guestroom, opening the window to let the room air, and turning out the light before he slipped across the hallway to make himself look decent.

Clad in a pair of comfy grey jeans and a marron t-shirt, he tip-toed downstairs, eavesdropping on the conversation from the hallway and carefully choosing when he should make his entrance. It was only when he caught sight of his reflection in the hallway mirror that he realised he should have shaved. If they didn’t notice the haircut, the weight gain, the crooked nose, black eye, or the lines beginning to crease around his eyes and mouth, they’d notice his 5 days’ worth of stubble for sure.

But it was too late, Enjolras had spotted him and was smiling expectantly.

 _Fuck it._ Grantaire thought. He sloped towards the kitchen and propped himself on the doorjamb. It was about time he gave his friends a proper explanation.

“I always forget how nice this house is,” Bahorel was saying. “Every time I come round it seems to get bigger. I still don’t know how you two could afford it. Did you rob a bank or something?”

“Not exactly,” Grantaire smirked, taking that as his cue to enter.

All at once seven pairs of eyes were upon him. Three stunned by the noticeable differences, four hoping that they were the only ones who found Grantaire’s sudden change of appearance so startlingly obvious.

“R,” Bossuet gaped.

“Holy shit,” Bahorel added.

“What happened to your eye?” Feuilly wanted to know, sounding more concerned than alarmed. Grantaire always knew Feuilly was secretly a saint. “Tell me these idiots didn’t drop you on the way back from the bar.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Grantaire answered honestly. “But no, they weren’t responsible for this,” Grantaire shook his head.

“Have we somehow skipped ahead to tomorrow where R’s sober and…older?” Bahorel laughed.

“You’re closer to the mark than you think.” Grantaire walked across the kitchen and leant against the counter beside Enjolras, wondering how best to phrase the explanation.

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said slowly, cautiously. It was adorable how concerned he was that Grantaire was about to unwittingly ‘out’ himself. But it was time.

“I time travel,” Grantaire said simply, deciding blunt honesty was the way to go.

Bahorel cackled. “Good one, R,”

“I’m not joking. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but sometimes I cut loose from my present and revisit moments from my past or future. The Grantaire you saw in the bar was time travelling from 1995; too wasted to notice he was in the future.” He smiled, letting the absurdity of his words sink in. “I know I sound crazy, but,” he shrugged.

A moment of tense, stunned silence followed.

“I gather,” Feuilly began tentatively, “from the lack of outraged responses that most of you knew already?” he looked at Enjolras as he spoke.

Enjolras nodded, reaching out to entwine his fingers with Grantaire’s.

“Yeah, Ferre, Jehan and I knew too.” Courfeyrac owned up.

“Sorry, I should have told the three of you sooner,” Grantaire glanced up sheepishly. “but it’s not the easiest conversation to have.”

“I don’t get it,” Bahorel blinked, a frown creasing his eyebrows together.

“Me either,” Grantaire laughed.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” ‘Why didn’t you tell _me?’_ rang unspoken in his words. “I thought you trusted us, I thought you trust me.”

“I do, that’s why I’m telling you now and not fobbing you off with some half-assed excuse.”

Bahorel still looked hurt.

“I don’t make a habit of telling people, okay? A few years ago these guys found out on their own, like you did this evening.” Grantaire sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.

“So you might never have told us? If we hadn’t stumbled across you in the bar, you wouldn’t have ever thought we needed to know?” Bahorel asked, indignantly.

“No,” Grantaire admitted, cringing as Bahorel looked visibly betrayed. “Can you blame me?” he asked, suddenly angry. It was his life that got periodically screwed over; what right did Bahorel had to be annoyed. “It sounds insane! I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You wouldn’t have done.”

“Haven’t I? ‘cause you seem pretty annoyed with me.”

“Nah, man. It’s just – a lot to take in.” Bahorel shrugged. “You’re my oldest friend and I find you’ve been lying to me the whole time?”

“I’ve been lying to everyone.” Grantaire’s life was a complicated series of lies strung together with paper clips and glue. He dipped his head and exhaled. This is why he didn’t tell people.

“That’s your prerogative.” Feuilly shrugged. “So who punched you in the face?”

Seriously, Feuilly deserved to be canonised on the spot.

“A farmer. Caught me sleeping in his barn somewhere in rural Indiana circa 1989.”

Feuilly laughed and shook his head. “You never cease to amaze.”

=

Bahorel’s cake had disappeared before Grantaire had ventured downstairs, so he suggested they order pizza which they took outside, eating on the patio whilst the last traces of the sun dipped below the treeline. After a few beers Bahorel had mellowed out and joined Courfeyrac’s approach towards the concept of time travel, asking if Grantaire had ever seen a real life dinosaur; not seeming to care however many times Grantaire explained that it didn’t work like that.

It was Feuilly who figured out the more practical implications. Quicker than Grantaire had himself, it had to be said.

“So, this house. When you said you didn’t _technically_ rob a bank, I’m guessing you manipulated the markets?”

Grantaire grinned into his wine glass, taking a sip before answering.

“You give me too much credit. I just cashed in at the right time and happened across a few winning. lottery tickets.”

Now Bahorel really did seem to be pissed. “Oi! Where were my stock tips?”

“2003, I told you to bet on the Marlins to win the world series, and did you listen to me?”

Bahorel retreated behind his beer bottle. “I thought you were joking,” he grumbled. “You didn’t tell me you _knew_ they’d win.”

“I said it was a sure thing, how much clearer could I be?”

“You could have told me you were a time traveller.”

“And would you have believed me back then?”

“I’m not sure I believe you now.”

Everyone laughed.

“But believe it or not, whenever I’m in the future – which is a rare occurrence, by the way – I usually have other things on my mind than reading up on sports almanacs or checking lottery numbers.”

“What could be more important than that?” Courfeyrac laughed.

“Um, running for my life from a farmer with a shotgun? Running from a Doberman after accidentally trespassing? Running from the police after I’m caught stealing?…Yeah, it’s mostly a lot of running.” He’d meant to sound humorous, but Enjolras flinched at the comment. Grantaire stared at him properly for the first time since he’d got back, noticing the tired circles under his eyes and the world-weary slump of his shoulders. It didn’t suit him to look this drained. Grantaire felt guilt squirm in his gut.

It wasn’t all bad, he’d been playing up the danger because it sounded more dramatic, but later he’d remind Enjolras about the meadow, the beach, the times he found himself trailing his young and newly married parents, the afternoons spent with his childhood self; visiting museums, getting ice-cream, learning the art of picking locks – okay maybe scratch that last one. But Enjolras needed to know he wasn’t always in danger, he needed to stop worrying about Grantaire and stop putting his life on hold whenever Grantaire disappeared.

Grantaire thought of the business card burning a hole in his pocket. Maybe he’d given that Dr Joly or whatever the hell he’d been called, a ring. Ultimately, what harm could it do? And if it made life easier for Enjolras? Well, Grantaire was willing to risk just about anything to facilitate that.

**Author's Note:**

> \- A big thank you to everyone who is reading and enjoying this :)) I seriously never expected to get this kind of response. You're all wonderful.  
> \- Reminder that I've set up a [ handy timeline](http://www.tiki-toki.com/timeline/entry/219305/Life-Interrupted/) to help keep track of when and where things are happening.  
> \- Don't be afraid to stop by my [tumblr](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/) to discuss headcanons / ask for clarifications / make requests / read drabbles that haven't yet made it to here.  
> \- As always, a huge, eternal thank you to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) for her continued support (and willingness to listen to me rambling endless about this story).


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